Hark! What’s that you hear? We submitted the hardcover edition of A SEA OF SKULLS to the printer last night. I’ll review them next week, and assuming they pass muster, we’ll release it into the distribution system. You’ll be able to purchase them from directly NDM Express, of course, as well as from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and your local bookseller. At 299,434 words, it’s a slightly longer book than ATOB in terms of word count, although with the much more efficient layout program we have now, it only clocks in at 760 pages. We do plan to do a revised version of ATOB so that the interior styles will match more precisely, but probably not for a month or two.
FJOTRA
Fjotra did not object, in principle, to learning about the gods of her new people. She had known from the time her father, the Skullbreaker, sent her to marry the heir to the southern kingdom, that she would have to learn many different new ways. The language was different, but she was young enough to learn it without difficulty. The food was considerably more abundant and flavorful, and her palate did not take long to adapt to the various meats and breads and sauces that were much to be preferred to the salted fish and charred game of her home islands. The clothing was lighter and more comfortable, and she adored wearing silk and cotton dresses in the place of the crude leather and canvas clothes that had been worn by Dalarn women since the coming of the Aalvarg had made raising sheep for wool and growing flax for linen impossible. Even the weather was much more gentle than it customarily was in the windswept Wolf Isles.
But despite the best efforts of Father Francois, who took great pains to talk her through the nonsense, she could make neither heads nor tails about the gods of the southerners. They worshipped a god who was both dead and alive, who was both father to himself and son to himself, and also took on a third form that was nevertheless the same as the other two. It wasn’t that the idea a god had different forms was foreign to her; the Aldaföðr had a hundred names, from Arnhöfði to Völundrómu, and each name represented a different aspect of her people’s greatest god. But despite his many aspects, he was merely the first among a host of gods, and Fjotra particularly venerated Valfreyja, the beautiful goddess who was queen of the Choosers of the Slain.
In Valfreyja, Fjotra understood her duty to be beautiful, to be a mother, and to stand beside a strong and victorious warleader. Hers was not the battle, hers was to send her husband and sons to war without tears, without fears, and to await the word of their death-greetings with the stoicism that would bring them honor. Thus would she best serve her people, as she had been commanded by her mother and her father alike.
What did a divided god who could not decide if he was alive or not offer her? What guidance could he give her? How could he, being a male god, provide her with any example at all, especially when he was useless in war and was more akin to a helpless victim like Baldur the Beautiful than a war god like the Thunderer or Tyr One-Hand?
She sighed as she looked out the window and saw the rotund figure of Father Jean-Félix making his clumsy way through the garden of the manorial grounds. It appeared it was once more time for something the southerners called her Cat Kiss Me, although it never seemed to involve anything more than the priest lecturing her about gods. But both Étienne-Henri and his mother had made it very clear that the soft men in the black dresses were to be treated with the utmost respect, although she had been repeatedly assured that they were not, in fact, trollmands or hekser.
So, she made her way downstairs in time to receive the priest in the large sitting room that served the manor as an unofficial reception chamber. When Flannery, the tallest and prettiest of her ladies, showed him into the room, she rose politely from the chair she was sitting, smiled at him, and offered him her left hand, which he dutifully raised to his lips without showing even the slightest sign that she held any interest for him beyond his duties.
“Do you care for any refreshments, Father?” The priest’s face was a little red with the effort of his walk, but he declined Flannery’s offer.
“No, although I anticipate that I will need one once we’re done here.” He sat down heavily in the chair next to Fjotra and sighed even more deeply than she had a few minutes ago at the sight of him.
“I will confess, your Highness, that this entire endeavor strikes me as futile and almost certainly pointless, but the King has made his wishes clear on the matter. Therefore, I shall continue to instruct you until such time as you are decently baptized and sufficiently within the bosom of the Most Holy and Immaculate Church to marry his son.”
“I am very thankful to you for your help, Father.”
He smiled faintly at the small victory denoted by her address; two previous visits had largely been devoted to her questions concerning why she should call him “father” when everyone knew perfectly well that her real father was the Skullbreaker.
“Your willingness to be instructed is only exceeded by your astonishing refusal to understand anything I tell you, your Highness. Now, do you remember what it means when we talk about the importance of baptism?”
“Of course. I have to take a bath. I have already told you, many, many times, that I am happy to take the bath. Even if it is outside, in front of everyone. We Dalarn do not fear to let others see us naked.”
“It’s not just about the bath—”
“Did you know that some of our bravest warriors are even known to fight naked, when the battle-madness falls—”
The priest held up a chubby hand to stop her. “Forgive me, your Highness. But do allow me to interrupt, if you please.”
“As you wish.”
“A baptism is more than a bath. It is a symbolic demonstration of a spiritual metaphor. The cleansing of our body represents the cleansing of our soul by the Immaculate, which is necessary if we are to be able to enter into the presence of the Highest and Most Holy.”
“The god,” Fjotra said, to confirm her impression was correct.
“Yes, the Highest and Most Holy God. The Creator.”
“Like the All-Father?”
“Yes!” the priest said, pleased. “In fact, one of the names with which we address Him is God the Father.”
“And his son is the Immaculate, yes?”
“Exactly!”
“So the Immaculate is not a god, he is one of the god’s servants?”
The smile vanished from the priest’s face.
“No, not His servant, His son. The Immaculate is the Son of God, the only begotten Son of God!” The priest’s rosy cheeks somehow seemed to be getting even rosier, and although his tone remained calm, he was speaking a little louder than was really necessary, seeing how close he was sitting to her. “He is not a servant, like us.”
“But did you not tell me that we are children of the god? So how can the Immaculate be the only son, if he is our brother?”
“Heaven help me!” The priest looked up at the ceiling and made a prayerful gesture with his hands. “Let’s not trouble ourselves with the specific nature of the familial relations right now, your Highness. The important thing for you to understand, and to affirm, is that both the Highest and Most Holy and the Immaculate are God.”
“Ah, yes, the treenighet. Or as you say, la trinité, yes?”
“Exactly. If you are to be baptized, you must confess that you believe in the only begotten Son of God, born of the Father before all ages. God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, consubstantial with the Father, and through him all things were made.”
“Yes, I remember. That’s two. What was the three? I forgot.”
“The third is the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the giver of life, who proceeds from the Father and the Son, who with the Father and the Son is adored and glorified.”
“Ah yes, the ghost! I think I would like to choose the ghost, if I am to choose one.”
“Sacrebleu!” The priest put a hand to his forehead, as if he had suddenly developed a headache. “Your Highness, you do not choose one. There is no need. We worship all three.”
“So there are three gods! The Aldaföðr, his dead son, and the ghost!”
Father Jean-Félix closed his eyes. Fjotra thought perhaps he was praying, so she closed her eyes as well and respectfully bowed her head. She sat there in silence for a long moment, then cracked open one eyelid to see if the priest had finished yet, but he was still muttering to himself, so she waited until he was finished before saying ‘Amen’.
“What did you just say?”
“Amen. You were praying, yes?”
“In a manner of speaking.” The priest sighed.